A Book on Trial

by Andrew Felsher

4/1/24

Book is on the driver’s seat. It’s Tuesday morning, street cleaning. Alternate side parking is in effect, so cars need to be moved.  

In a series of three long leaps a patrolling Squirrel approaches along the sidewalk, tail twitching as it searches for valid inspection and registration stickers. 

Squirrel settles on the driver side mirror and taps on the window that has been left open a few inches. 

“License and registration,” Squirrel says. 

“What did I do, officer?” Book says. 

“License and registration,” Squirrel repeats. 

“I don’t have a driver’s license,” Book says. “You can open the cover, flip a page. You’ll notice I’m translated, originally published in 1925 as Der Prozess. I’m documented.”

Book maintains composure and leans on the black leather upholstery, hoping not to move suddenly. 

Squirrel is easily startled. 

Squirrel pokes its head into the opened window and sniffs, facemask not covering its nostrils. Then Squirrel jots down “Franz Kafka” and “The Trial” on its notepad and tells Book to stay still while it verifies the information. 

Squirrel leaps back to behind the car, takes out its cell phone, closes out of the Instagram app on which it had been posting photographs of leafless branches silhouetted against the sky, and then confirms no registered drivers named Franz Kafka or The Trial exist in New York City. 

Squirrel calls its supervisor, explaining that it has stumbled upon an unlicensed Book attempting to drive an unregistered two-door orange Beetle. 

Five minutes later, a chubby Duck arrives and waddles to meet Squirrel behind the car. Duck is still soaked from having patrolled Harlem Meer pond all day. 

Squirrel shows Duck the Wikipedia page, confirming Kafka is dead. 

“When?” Duck blurts, no facemask. “I hate reading on phones.”

“1924.”

“Where?” 

“Austria.”

“Birthplace?”

“Czech Republic.”

“What’s this book doing in New York?”

“Not sure.”

“We might be onto something,” Duck says. “Follow my lead.” 

Duck approaches the driver’s door.  “What did you do to Franz Kafka?” Duck says, feathers dripping on the asphalt. 

“Nothing,” Book responds. “He died before I was printed.”

“Kafka looks like a mouse,” Squirrel scoffs, pulling up a black and white photograph. “Was he a mouse?” 

“Kafka wasn’t a mouse,” Book says, “but he wrote a piece about a person turning into an insect.”

“What kind of insect?” Squirrel says, licking its lips.   

“Something like a beetle,” Book says.

“Neither mice nor people become insects,” Duck snaps. “Did you murder Franz Kafka and steal this car?”

“I’m not a murderer,” Book says. “Not a thief.”

“Whose car is it?” Duck says.

“It’s Sam K.’s car.”

“Where and when did Sam purchase it?” 

“Sam bought it a couple months ago on the internet,” Book says. “They shipped it directly to our apartment. We were worried about public transportation during the pandemic.”

“You’re driving an unregistered car,” Duck says. 

“The DMV is delayed in issuing registrations.” 

“That’s not an excuse.”

“Duck,” Squirrel mutters. “He has a point.” 

Duck swivels its emerald head, stares at Squirrel, and then motions for Squirrel to follow. 

They pace around the back of the car and crouch beneath the rear bumper.

Duck whispers to Squirrel, “I think Book is hiding something. I’ve got a gut feeling. If we expose a conspiracy, I might become detective. Maybe you’ll get promoted too.”

“A conspiracy?” Squirrel says uneasily.

“International.” Duck spreads its wings to cover its beak, winks, and then waddles back around to the door. Duck flaps its wings, momentarily takes flight, and lands on the roof, where it puffs out its chest. “Book, please step slowly out of the car.”

“If you don’t put on a facemask,” Book says. “I’m not going to answer you. It makes me uncomfortable, not to mention I don’t have legs.”

“Are you mocking me?” Duck says.

“The virus can spread on books too,” Book says. “I don’t want Sam to get sick. You might have the virus and be asymptomatic.”

Just then, Duck extends its neck through the gap in the window, yanks Book from the driver’s seat, clenches the binding in its yellow beak, and then drops Book on the hood. 

Terrified of physical conflict, Squirrel doesn’t budge.  

Book contorts, its cover of five blue eyes punctuated by a single golden eye, all set against a red background, brushes against bird droppings spattered all over the hood. 

“What’s with the cover?” Duck says, its orange-webbed feet pinning Book down.  “We have to search your car.” 

“I think it’s—” Squirrel stammers. “It’s just a unique cover design.”

“Don’t question me,” Duck says. “Search the car.”

Squirrel leaps into the car, spins around the gearshift, climbs onto the arm rest, crawls behind the pedals, and then finds remnants of peanuts beneath the floormat. 

Squirrel nibbles on the crumbs and stuffs some leftovers in its cheeks. 

Across the street, pigeons and sparrows watch, but do nothing, and then continue munching on a mound of rice left along the curb in front of a bodega. 

Squirrel returns to the driver side mirror. “I couldn’t find anything,” Squirrel mumbles, mouth full of nuts. 

“We need to inspect your pages,” Duck says, still soaked and pinning Book down. 

“You’re dripping on me,” Book says. “My ink will smudge.”

Flustered, Squirrel dashes toward the end of the block, feverishly digs a hole in the dirt beneath a gingko tree, and then buries the stash of nuts.  

“You can read me,” Book says. “I have nothing to hide.” 

Duck turns Book over, folds back the opening pages. 

When Squirrel is back, they both closely read the opening line. 

Someone must have slandered Josef K., for one morning, without having done anything wrong, he was arrested. 

Duck fidgets, inadvertently tearing a wet page.

Book cries for Duck to dry itself before leafing through pages.

“Tell us about the Czech Republic,” Duck blurts. “Are you a communist spy?” 

“You just ripped it,” Squirrel says. 

“Don’t be weak,” Duck says. “This book is fine.”

Duck flips through and stops, where Sam had underlined a line of Kafka’s. Lies are made into a universal system. 

Duck squints. “Book, is that a code? What are you trying to say? Don’t deceive us.”  

“I can’t underline myself,” Book says. “Clearly it wasn’t me.” 

“Books like you should stay on a bookshelf,” Duck says. 

“I won’t be suffocated by a bookshelf,” Book says. “I want to be known. To be relevant. To exist.” 

“We all want to be known,” Squirrel says, “but don’t have the time to dedicate…” 

“Excuses,” Duck rules. “All I hear are excuses to avoid hard work.”

“I never said anything about work,” Book responds. “I wouldn’t mind having a job.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”  Duck says, “Not only are you dismissing everyone’s obligation to work, but you’re avoiding the bookshelf, which is your only option. Any Book that’s off the bookshelf, especially one like you, might be perceived as guilty. Books don’t interfere with the world if they’re in their proper place. The only option remaining is for there to be a trial.” 

“Trials can take months or years,” Squirrel chimes in, disturbed that Duck has pushed it this far. “I’ll ensure the proceedings are convenient for you.”

“The case,” Duck says, “won’t prevent you from working to improve your situation.”

Book doesn’t know what this trial would entail. Who is the judge? Who are the attorneys? Where will the hearings take place? What are the charges? Will its fate be entwined with the prison of Kafka’s imagination? Would it be executed in the darkness, without having arrived at a clear verdict? Does it truly exist, with thoughts, with a will, or is it subordinate to what it means to be a book that belongs on bookshelves pressed between other books? 

There are no more words exchanged. Duck leaves. Squirrel has no choice but to follow. 

When Sam returns to the car, imprints of Duck’s webbed feet have branded Book’s cover. Pages have been torn, ink smudged. The tarnished Book is now limp and clamped between the windshield and the wiper blade. 

Sam releases Book like it’s only a book. She rubs it down with disinfectant wipes, sits in the driver’s seat, and closes the window. While she waits for street cleaning to turn onto her block, she opens the altered Book, and then brings the tip of a blue ballpoint pen to a page that isn’t wet somewhere toward the end. 

She recognizes a word or phrase that once belonged to Kafka that hasn’t been smudged. She places a star beside a bracket, above a twisting arrow. 

But Book doesn’t know what’s in its pages. It cannot see itself. It doesn’t know if it deserves the world that it faces. All it knows for sure is what others say about it, how others impose and ascribe, how its pages and words have become its bones and organs, variables in an inconceivable system.

This is a revised version of “A Book Struggles to Drive in Washington Heights”, which first appeared in Action, Spectacle’s Winter 2021 issue. This piece was also translated by Jacques Fux and appeared in São Paulo Review.